


they say love is pain (well darling, let's hurt tonight)

by NatureGirl202



Series: don't let them see you bleed [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Pro-Anders, anti-chantry, anti-templars, there you have been warned lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 13:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11291997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NatureGirl202/pseuds/NatureGirl202
Summary: the first night on the run, or that time words were of little use.





	they say love is pain (well darling, let's hurt tonight)

They haven’t made eye contact for five hours and thirty-five minutes. It’s as long as they’ve been moving, the group putting as much distance between themselves and Kirkwall as possible. He’s not sure if the lack of interaction is simply because she’s too busy leading the way while he lingers in the back of the group—he’s knows it’s best he keep a distance from certain members of the group—or she’s avoiding him. Then again, his eyes have seemed to land everywhere except her. Perhaps it is all of the above.

Weariness is setting into the group. There hasn’t been a moment of rest since… well, since he made a decision there will be no going back from and while he doesn’t _want_ to go back, he still regrets the effect this has had on his friends, on the innocent within Kirkwall, on _her_. He had tried his best to keep her out of it, to keep the repercussions as far from her as possible. They reached her nevertheless and while he knows what his title will now be throughout Thedas— _murderer_ and _terrorist_ , no doubt—he wonders what hers will be. Will she be lumped in with him, just two crazy apostates without remorse or care? Will they try to reason it, say she was seduced or possessed or tampered with by blood magic in some way? She’d worked hard, building a life there. Everything had been against her, from her blunt sarcastic approach toward conversation to her always skirting the very edge of the Circle. Still, she’d pushed past all that to become the very heart of the city. She’d resented the symbol they’d made her into, he knows, but he’d always been proud anyway.

The group comes to a stop and he manages to jerk himself out of his thoughts just in time to keep from running into Varric. Hawke has paused near the top of the hill, kneeling down and examining something on the ground. She looks up, gestures for Merrill to join her. He’s sure the elf is used to long treks with her clan, but even she seems tired, an uncharacteristic droop to her shoulders. Maybe it has less to do with the lack of rest, though, and more to do with the recent happenings. Merrill kneels next to Hawke and examines whatever Hawke’s looking at that’s not within his sight. They murmur to each other, out of his earshot. Eventually, the two stand, and Hawke turns to address the group.

“Fresh tracks” she explains, and he knows by the extra attention she’s giving it that they’re not simply animal tracks. “Isabela, Fenris, and I will scout ahead. The rest of you stay here just in case.” Normally, this is the part where she makes a witty comment— _try not to die without me_ or _don’t have too much fun without me_ —but that doesn’t seem to be coming. Instead her eyes scan the group as Fenris and Isabela join her side. Her gaze lands on him and his eyes skitter away before they can meet hers. Ah, so it seems he’s the culprit. “We’ll be right back.” And then she’s gone, disappearing into the dark forest.

He finds a nearby stone and sits on it. It’s not comfortable, but it’s a form of rest nevertheless. He estimates they only have a few more hours before the sun shows and an entirely new day begins.

No one talks to him. He’s fairly sure none of them know what to say even if they wished to speak with him. Merrill does approach, stopping and hovering a few feet away. She opens her mouth, shifts uncomfortably, and then ducks her head and retreats. Varric has taken a reprieve from shooting him resentful looks—he’s not sure what upsets the dwarf more, the state of the city or Anders’ having dragged Hawke into this whole mess. Aveline has barely acknowledged his presence, her lack of hostility probably out of respect for Hawke. Carver’s glances are of pure poison and the most common of interaction. The younger man is smart enough, though, to know that starting a conflict now would benefit no one. No, Anders’ suspects the harsh words will come with the morning sun. Isabela’s demeanor has been more quiet than usual, but overall just as casual as ever. She’s mostly stuck by Hawke, and Anders’ is thankful for that, knowing that Hawke depends more on Isabela’s frankness and blasé attitude than she would admit. And Fenris, well, Anders has made sure to keep as large a distance between himself and Fenris as possible.

Hawke and her two companions do return fairly shortly. He almost doesn’t notice her with them at first, the dark cloak she’d snatched—along with a matching one for him—on their way out of the city blending in seamlessly with the night.

“There’s an inn just up ahead” she says once everyone has turned their gaze to her. “Owner’s _blissfully_ oblivious to the _events_ eastward, which will only last a night or two.” Her tone is light and breezy as usual, the implied eye-roll ever present, but there’s a tired note to her voice as well. He’d heard it before, after unexpectedly tough battles, long nights, or any time she’d visited the Gallows. Now, it’s been in every word spoken since the explosion. “I got us seven rooms.” One less than the total number of group members. They’ll share a room, he realizes. A bit of hope flickers in his chest at the thought that she’s still willing to occupy such a small space with him. _Or_ , a cruel voice whispers—not Justice, but one of his own— _she wants to make sure you don’t run off and kill more “innocents” of the Chantry._

* * *

The inn owner is a cheerful fellow, no doubt happy just to have some business. At the very least, he doesn’t ask questions, even if he does falter slightly at the blood adorning some of their clothing. Still, he shows them to their rooms with a beat to his step and a promise of breakfast in the morning. Hawke’s stomach grumbles at the thought of food, but it’s easily ignored. She’d learned to put off hunger during her first year in Kirkwall and she hadn’t lost the skill despite the spoils she’d experienced the last several years.

She and Anders enter their room and she closes the door behind them, locking the chain. With the _click_ of the door shutting, the silence between them is suddenly thick, crawling along her skin. She wants to itch, shrug it off with one of her humorous remarks, but none come to her tongue. Silence between them had never been uncomfortable before. They’d spent several evenings at her estate or in his clinic without saying a word, him working on his manifesto while she reads a book or scribbles in her journal.

Anders immediately goes to sit on the bed. She walks up to a small table at the end of the small room. She removes her cloak, letting it drop to the ground. She kicks it to the side carelessly, her propensity for neatness having died with her mother years ago. She removes her gauntlets and hair tie, thick hair falling past her shoulders. She lets out a breath, bones aching with exhaustion.

She turns to see Anders still sitting on the bed, hunched over, entwined fingers pressed to his forehead. Her chest aches and her fingers twitch with the need to protect him, to stand between him and all the weight pressing down on him. She has seen him angry, she has seen him hurt, she has seen him sad, and this is all of that at once.

Guilt radiates off him like sickness does from red lyrium. She knows he doesn’t regret his actions, and she certainly doesn’t want him to, but many have been harmed. She believes the Templars and Chantry are the ones ultimately responsible for the carnage—from the very beginning and also due to Meredith’s call for annulment—but he is still the one _directly_ responsible and she knows many, including him, cannot see past that.

He no doubt also blames himself for the total upheaval of everyone’s lives, especially hers. She’s not sure how to ease that guilt of his, if he’d even listen. She’d told him once that she was just as willing to give her life for the freedom of mages as he was. She has no problem playing the part of martyr. She’d spent too long speaking of action instead of doing it. If the loss of a title and fancy estate is what she has to pay, then she will gladly. As for their friends—probably more so hers than his at this point—she knows they will ultimately move on with their lives. They will spend a few days away, letting things settle in Kirkwall, before they will part ways with her and return. The city will be rebuilt and some semblance of normal will return, she has no doubt.

She hesitates only slightly before walking up to him. He’s been avoiding her since they left Kirkwall, which she knows is due to running thoughts and guilt for “dragging” her into this—as if she had done anything less than leap readily into the rebellion with a half-cocked plan and half a prayer. Still, though this is enhanced, she’s used to his moments of brooding. He needs her presence during these moments, to know she’s there and she’s not leaving and that she does not judge him for doing what is right.

She kneels in front of him, softly pushing the hood of his cloak off his head. He doesn’t react much except to squeeze his eyes shut. She moves slowly, her hands resting on his legs for a moment before traveling to his face. Her fingers are gentle, as she always is with him. They caress his jaw, lightly prodding until he finally drops his hands and lifts his face. His eyes remain closed tightly, finally opening when she brushes a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Their gazes meet and she can see the turmoil, even a hint of surprise, no doubt at the fact that she is still here, touching him and showing the same love she always has.

“Your self-loathing is giving me a headache, darling.” It’s a line she’s used before, a good icebreaker for when he’s low and needs a reminder not to be so harsh on himself.

His gaze searches hers, as if she may hold the answer to everything. He’s searched her for this before and she’s never quite had the heart to tell him that she is like everyone else in this regard: she has questions where there are no answers, and answers where there are no questions. “What will we do?” His question is quiet, as if afraid to push her away with the force of his voice alone.

She’d told him she would run with him, quickly and readily, as if no other option had entered her mind because none other had. Still, he is not asking that. He is not asking if they will run, he is not asking where they will run, he is not even asking for long they will run. He is asking what they will _do_ and she has no answer, nothing to say. Not for the first time, she has no plan, no grand scheme or strategy. She’s winging this as she does most things and she sees no reason why she should stop this technique that, beyond reason, has mostly worked out for her.

She leans forward slowly, giving him every chance to back away should he not desire it, and presses her lips softly to his, because _this_ is what they will do. They will love and they will live and they will be _free_. Wanted and on the run and probably always looking over their shoulders, but _free_. Free from every responsibility and expectation thrust upon her by those who saw her as less of a person and more of a hero, a symbol. Free from the looming ghost of the Circle over his head that haunted his days and nights. Free from the threat of shackles that plagued both of them since childhood.

There’s a moment of stillness, before he is kissing her back with a fierceness and desperation that she has come to associate with his love. She gently pushes him back onto the bed and he allows her. Then they’re shedding clothes and this may not be a cure for everything wrong in the world and the exhaustion they feel that is more than just physical, but it is a reprieve. It’s a moment to take solace in the fact that they are _alive_ and _together_ and, consequences be damned, they just changed the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr](http://bxtgrl.tumblr.com/post/162210912932/they-say-love-is-pain-well-darling-lets-hurt). <3


End file.
